


Not Something True

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Consent Issues Exchange Treat, Do Not Archive, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hallucinations, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-15 21:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16940679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Sasha can't remember what Michael looked like, her memories all blurry. It's becoming frustrating, and she would like very much to see it again.





	Not Something True

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radioqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioqueen/gifts).



> Betareading by Mr Blackwood.

Sasha, of course, is sure all of this was real. She has proof enough. Someone in the team - she doesn't want to know who - went to check Timothy Hodge's body. Jon believed her statement. Even Elias bought fire extinguishers because he believed her, it's the first time he's seemed to take practical occultism seriously!

And there's this cut in her shoulder, slowly healing. It doesn't hurt, except when she touches it. It was too sharp. But she can see the red line.

So it was all true. Of course it was. But this thing, Michael, it makes her doubt everything. Every scene it was in becomes blurred. She can't remember at which point it was a tall, blond man, with an uncalled for unassuming face, and when the curly hair turned into wild hungry spirals, and his hands into knives. She can't even remember when she feared him more. Or less.

Its voice and its laugh sounded like something that pretended to be human, and she can't even remember if she was scared or grateful to it for making the effort.

She wants to see it again - to take notes maybe? To remember to notice all the right things this time. The ones she didn't tell Jon because her feelings were a bit personal, or maybe because she started to forget even at this time.

One Saturday morning, waking up, she finds a letter on her breakfast table. There is no address on the outside, only a spiral-shaped symbol, and from the way it makes her a bit dizzy, she knows who it is from even before opening it. (Was Michael in her house? While she was sleeping?)

It asks her to go to an Art Gallery she’s never heard of, "as a friend". She knows she will go. Maybe she will learn more about the worms, and the other threats against her team. Maybe it can save her life.

Even if she only learnt more about Michael, she would go. She knows this. She doesn't need excuses. She makes them anyway.

It is here before her, but she has the feeling that it arrived only because it knew she was almost there. She looks at it intently. It looks human. It's stupidly tall with nice hair, and it doesn't even look strong, though of course it is even more dangerous than this.

It knew the worms' weak points. Sasha wonders if it knows hers, too, some specific things, or if knife hands are more than enough to take care of any human being.

"Come here," it says, and leads her away from the door. She doesn't ask questions. She will see soon enough. Maybe it's an art museum date the same way the other one was a graveyard date. The kind that seems romantic on paper, and then you end up in a dirty, wormy bar. But no, it shows her a side door and offers her its hand. Of course she doesn't take it. But she still follows Michael though the door.

It's even weirder than she expected, and she gets a bit dizzy when they pass another door and come to the actual art exhibition. Abstract art - it doesn't always talk to her. But after what she just felt, she feels wary of the paintings. They look like doors to other worlds. Maybe it's what the artist intended. Maybe that's the point of modern art, for all she knows.

It asks Sasha what she thinks of the art, and she answers exactly this.

"Yes, the painter is one of ours," Michael says after a very short laugh. Its voice has a weird cadence, not sounding musical, but still nice.

Sasha looks at its face, her head turning fast - and it looks normal again. Again, because there was a point where it didn't. Even if she can't remember the details. Maybe it's because it was fast, and she didn't try to rationalize it. Maybe it's because of the art.

Or maybe rationalizing it is exactly what she should do.

"Who are yours?" she asks, as she tries to find the right angle. The lenses of her glasses are smooth, but right on the border they distort things just a little bit...

Yes, she can see it like it really is this way, with its huge, sharp hands and its weird-shaped pupils. As soon as her vision becomes normal again, she already forgot what form it was.

"Certainly not your kind, looking at everything like you own it. Seeking useless knowledge everywhere."

Sasha should get angry. Certainly not guilty about watching it like it really is, just because it _is_ useless. She no longer remembers what it's wearing. It gives the impression of a Hawaiian shirt, garish with weird shapes, but maybe this version of Hawaii is where Cthulhu lives.

"It seems you have a lot of knowledge that I don't have," she answers. "You'll excuse me for liking to get a bit of it."

It laughs, its deep, long, unnerving laugh. "A lot of knowledge? I don't know about Time and Space and Feelings and Logic and Identity, but you know, I guess it's true. You still have less, blind with your too many eyes."

Sasha does not know what this is about, but she's almost sure it's not only a drag on her glasses and the way she just used them. 

"So nice," she says sarcastically. "By the way, I'm not especially fond of the paintings, so is there any reason why I shouldn't turn around and walk away?" It was harsh, and the creature she talks to is dangerous. And fascinating. Maybe if it was not here the art would actually interest her more. She doesn't even want to leave, but it needs to respect her. "I mean, I'm grateful for the tip about the fire extinguishers, I really am. But why did you ask me to come here? Is it to tell me more? Or because I can do something for you this time?"

She doesn't lie about being grateful, but she can't stop herself thinking, even having to help it would be learning things about it.

"Because your company is very pleasant, Sasha James."

Her cheeks burn at this like a high school girl. _Really_ … Just because a monster is tall and mysterious and helpful...

Michael keeps talking. "I thought about abducting you, actually."

"Excuse me?"

"And then I remembered I hate Archival Assistants."

Sasha can no longer tell if it's joking, provoking her, or being something else entirely. She would like to not feel like it's a question she needs the answer to. "Why?"

"Well, because they always want to learn useless things, of course. Oh, and the other thing. They're always so _friendly_ and _self-sacrificing_ and _stupidly loyal_!" Sasha can't stop herself from wondering if he met Martin, which is not a nice thing to think at all. But she's getting more and more annoyed.

"Being friends was your idea," she points out.

"That's exactly the point!"

And, just like that, he's gone.

She goes home, confused and angry. Small blessing: no one noticed she never bought a ticket. Even she herself didn't notice, at this point. It's hopeless, as just being near it makes her lose half of her brain.

No, that's not true. Not totally true. It sure does this, yes, but she feels like it opens her mind to other things she can't quite conceptualize.

She won't get lost in it, but it's so tempting to have a glimpse.

She cooks a nice lunch - she will eat a bit late but it's the week-end and she's not that hungry. But as she cuts her carrots in thin slices, she sees Michael in the corner of her eye.

Is she surprised? Not really. Is she scared? Reasonably. Is she annoyed? A lot.

She turns to face it, and is surprised to see it no longer looks entirely human. It's what she caught glimpses of on distorted glass, but this time, free for her to see, the huge, pointy hands, the too flexible body, the exaggerated expressions. Its smile is so wide it could cut its face in half. It lets her see it, otherwordly and captivating. And dangerous.

"I have a knife," she says. She feels it's a very weak affirmation.

"Do you?" And her weapon changes into a snake that she drops on the table, before taking a step away.

"Am I dreaming?" she asks.

"Oh, no," it says with a kind of creepy parody of a reassuring tone. "Your dreams are still very much yours. You're hallucinating."

"Of course," she answers. She almost sighs in front of how much it makes twisted sense.

"Are you afraid?" it asks.

She should be, by all means. She doesn't know the powers of the monster in front of her, but it surely includes stabbing her and, as it seems, making her doubt her senses. But she is more wary than panicked. It's what she already felt first time they met.

"Not as much as I should. Is the hallucination doing something to me?"

It shakes its head, in a very human-looking gesture. "No. I like when people run away screaming."

She has a small laugh. "Sorry to disappoint." It would be easy if it really wanted to. It hasn't even properly threatened her yet. She suspects it didn’t really try.

"You're right, I shouldn't have offered friendship. It's nonsense."

She feels a bit hurt. Even if it's right. Maybe because Michael is right. They were never friends, of course, it hid a lot of things and she didn't trust it. And it did disparage her. But she had hopes.

"So, what about not being friends instead?"

"It's a good idea. We can do this without you getting in my house and turning my kitchenware into snakes."

"I assume friends don't do this," it asks.

And he's near her - _it_ is - and it's kissing her.

Its tongue is long and thick and electric and weirdly soft. It fills her mouth so she can't tell it to stop. She can't run either, its hands cupping her lower back, featherlight touch but deadly sharp fingers. She can't pretend she hates it, when she feels like her tongue can taste his roughness and feel its colors and all of it turns into fireworks of sensation in her mouth.

(Is that her weak point? Maybe.)

It seems to go forever and it seems to stop too soon.

"You have to tell me what you are now!" she exclaims. It's not that she wanted to say. She wanted to say that it was wrong and unprompted and probably harassment. 

"No," it answers. "By the way, I'm lying to you. None of this is happening."

She's not sure how comforting it's meant to be.

"Did I do it right," it asks. It sounds almost vulnerable then. Though it's lying to her. "Is it meant to happen like this?"

No, of course it didn't! Humans don't kiss like this, even the worst ones - even the best ones - and she has some experience of it. 

"I'm not sure it was meant to happen at all," she says. It did it, it made her lose her composure. Her breath is short in confusion, apprehension and probably anticipation.

"Meaning doesn't matter so much," it says, and its inhuman laugh almost sounds apologetic. "The important thing is you loved it."

She opens her mouth to say no. Then she hesitates, she did love it, of course, but it's still wrong, because there are far most important things. The pause gives Michael time to touch her, as its hands effortlessly slide through her clothes.

The skirt and blouse and underwear fall on the floor, except there's no longer a floor, nor a table (or a knife, or even a snake). The world is now rainbow-coloured and soft and she's standing naked. And Michael's kissing her again.

Maybe she could bite its tongue, she could scream, she could find the strength in herself to ask it to stop, to reason with it, to scream empty threats or supplications. She doesn't. It's too good. And it's probably not even real.

She's still standing, or maybe she's not, she lost gravity on the way, and Michael's huge hands are on her thighs, on her hips, on her waist. They could slice it so easily, she knows, even if right now they seem to just hover here. And then something - it's cock, she assumes - rubs against her cunt, just a bit, teasingly, and she wants to thrust against it, to get more of this exquisite pleasure in her mouth, but she still knows enough to realize that she would just manage to be badly cut.

Why don't you, she asks herself. It bleeds but it doesn't even hurt, and it's not real. Of course, she answers in this one-person conversation, eviscerate yourself for better sex, it's the right solution, like, never.

It stops kissing her.

She moans in frustration but at least she doesn't twist against his finger knives. 

"Please," she starts. Please let me live, please stop, please fuck me already. She can't say the words.

"Look at me," Michael asks. "It's what you wanted. It's what you do, little eye. I will enjoy it."

She could defy it by closing her eyes, but for which purpose? She does look.

She can see each one of its features, and they seem human, and the whole doesn't. And then he pulls out a tongue, long and twisted and prehensile - this part doesn't seem human at all, and it's almost reassuring. It's starting to lick at her breasts now - she lets out a small cry but she stays very still and hates that she does. It feels so wonderful. And still, its cock playing on her dripping cunt, rubbing at her clit, almost entering her, and the way Michael's body bends for this makes absolutely no sense, but does she care?

She can no longer stop herself, and she thrusts around him, takes its hard cock inside her.

It does cut her hips, a sharp, quick pain, and she feels the blood pool on her skin and mix with her fluids, but she doesn't stop, she keeps fucking him, and it's fucking her too, hard, and licking her, and its cock too seems to have some kind of weird shape writhing inside her, it fills her so well.

She comes and she bleeds more and she comes again. She doesn't know if Michael comes, given how weird it feels inside her and how she can't read his face, but as she's panting he kisses her cheek.

"It was nice," it says. "Very much not friendly."

And then it disappears and Sasha is lying on her kitchen's floor.

She hurts at first, and it takes her some time to get herself used again to the real colours, but as she looks at her body she's still wearing her clothes. And as she checks for wounds she finds nothing on her unblemished skin. She is wet, sure, but even if it was a dream...

When did she start hallucinating? They took no tickets for the gallery - can she find the letter again ? - she can't - maybe it never existed, or maybe Michael left with it - and she's not a detective who can check for dust on her shoes - and she's almost sure no one has saw her there - was she ever here?

Panicked, she checks her shoulder. The red line here still exists, at least, and she sobs from relief and frustration, curled on the floor.


End file.
